


Crown Your King

by jotunblood



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Literary References & Allusions, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 08:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16636400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: Intimacy was pointless.





	Crown Your King

**Author's Note:**

> So when I started this, I had plans for a long follow-up to Be My Gallows. It fought me tooth and nail though, and I ended up only being happy with this part. I still wanted to share it because I love this ‘verse, and wanted to get one last word in. Since it’s so short, think of it more as a deleted scene than anything!
> 
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> **If you haven’t read Be My Gallows yet, I highly suggest doing so first. It establishes the relationship, and is referenced, so the background is necessary.**
> 
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> 
> Thanks for reading, both this and it's companion! I hope you enjoy this little fic (and the ones I have lined up for the future). As always, let me know what you think. I adore hearing people’s thoughts.

Intimacy was pointless, really. Langdon wasn’t hers to keep. Still, Ms Venable couldn’t help but crave it.

It’d been some time since she’d let a man close, and her teeth itched to catch up. In the safety of his suite, at the bottom of a glass, she found herself fixating on details. The sharp part of his hair that tumbled down to waves, his regal nose and biteable chin, the pale stretch of neck peeking over his high collar, and his hands-- _God_ , his hands.

She’d had the exact thought before, though it’d been less flattering at the time. He’d shaken off his glamour to reveal the creature beneath, and the sight had been nearly vile. More than any other part of it, his hands had frightened her. They were alien, ruined things, their tips as black as burnt bone. The over-jointed fingers were like something from a nightmare, and the sound they made when he tapped smudged the air. And they’d been on her: her back and face and thighs. Inside, too, knuckle deep in her cunt. The thought was mortifying. Or rather, it should’ve been.

Seeing them now, it was difficult to think of his hands as anything less than magnificent.

Setting her glass aside, she cleared her throat, and his eyes cut up from the book. He’d been reading aloud at her request, and didn’t seem to have noticed her gaze. His voice, too, had become an obsession, and the easiest to indulge. Michael would talk for hours if she let him.

“Am I boring you, Wil?” He snapped the book shut and reached for his own glass. After swirling it to correct the separation, he took a sip. “The book was your choice, if you recall.”

The book was one of her favorites, actually. She’d found it on her first patrol, buried under a stack of texts in the old library. It was a handmade hardback of _La-Bas_ , old and lovingly embossed. The translation was subpar, possibly a student’s, but Michael glossed over the mistakes.

“Give me your hand,” she said in lieu of answer.

His brow quirked. “Why?”

“Because I asked.” She gnawed at her lip, hoping he wouldn’t press. The urge that’d gripped her was embarrassing enough without first having to explain it.

He considered her a moment, finger stroking the cover. Her eyes tracked as it move. The tip skated embossing, dipping to tease the flats between. Her tongue dried, and she swallowed hard around it, imagining he was tracing her collar.

“Please,” she added, for luck more than anything.

The furrow between his brow smoothed at that. Putting his glass aside again, he scooted his chair in to where she sat, balanced on the edge of his bed. He stopped when her toes knocked his boots, and sat the book down by her hip. He then held his hand up for her, and she took it under the palm. Flattening her own against it, she coaxed his fingers straight. They stretched up to her wrist, long and thick and handsome. 

“They’re soft.” Her fingers flexed on his palm, catching no calluses. The skin there was broken only by creases and pads of muscle. “What were you, before?”

“A student, mostly.”

“And what else?”

“A child.” He leaned up in his chair, allowing her to pull him closer. “But what’s this? Pillow talk isn’t like you.”

She didn’t think this qualified as pillow talk. Still, the man was right. She generally left the questions to him. She’d been given enough of a glimpse into his unnatural leanings to know that diving deep was dangerous. There was something down there, watching from the gloom. It was wiser not to disturb it.

“What I’m holding,” she asked, her better judgment railing, “is it real?” 

The man cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

“Your spell.” Her fingers traced idle patterns on his palm, her other hand coming to cover. Laying a finger over each of his, she traced up, bumping his knuckles. When she reached the flat back Michael drew a sharp breath, but didn’t pull away. Encouraged by the sound, she stroked the delicate carpals. “Does it give you a man’s body, or make me see one?”

Michael laughed, sounding genuinely surprised. “Been mulling that over long?”

Her finger traced the swell of a vein, nestled fat between his last two knuckles. It was a bruise of color against otherwise pale skin. She tested the bounce, and wondered how it’d feel to bite it.

“Does it matter?” he asked when she didn’t respond. “The result is the same, either way.”

She shrugged. “I’m only asking.”

“Yes, but why?” His hand flexed. “Would one upset you more than another?”

She considered her answer, wanting to be clear. It wouldn’t do to misspeak now. Though her own eyes were fixed on the mechanics of his hand, she could feel his burning her face. She’d piqued his interest, and could almost hear him thinking, anticipating what she might say.

“One would surprise me more,” she settled on, finally. “Not upset me. As you say, the results are the same.”

“Really?” He chewed the word. He didn’t sound like he believed her. “And if it was the latter? If what you’re holding--” He stroked her wrist. “--is what you saw in the bath?”

Her eyes cut to meet his. “Is it?”

“If it is?”

She held his gaze, enjoying the rarity of high ground. The rise of the bed forced him to look up, though there was little deference in his eyes. His mouth was open slightly, revealing the points of his teeth, and his eyes were narrowed curiously. He looked like a predator sizing up an opponent, deciding when and where it should bite.

Slowly, so as not to drop his attention, she raised Michael’s hand to her face. Letting it fold over her own, she brushed his fingers with her nose. He squeezed her hand on instinct, opening his mouth to speak. She shushed him, nuzzled the spot again, and his jaw obediently snapped shut. She rewarded him with a kiss to each knuckle, and his breath skittered out between his teeth. The sound evened to a contented hum when she pressed her lips flat to the back.

“You’re rather brave.” Tugging free from her grip, he turned his hand to cup her jaw. His thumb stroked her chin, working up to her lower lip. He traced the curve before pressing into the pout. “Or maybe you just like being contrary.”

She didn’t know which it was, either. All the same, it was a thrill to be under his hand. Leaning into the touch, her tongue darted out to wet the pad of his thumb. Michael hissed, and adjusted his hold to grant her better access. She took it, parting her mouth to let the digit slip in. She wrapped her lips and drew it in, hollow her cheeks. It bottomed out, knuckle deep, and she flattened her tongue to drag up its belly. His eyes darkened, and he stroked the slick muscle in response. It almost tickled, and she hummed, felt the buzz feed back. He echoed it before pulling free.

"Brave, I think," he decided, voice rumbling low and content.

He dragged his thumb over her lips, smearing spit, and she squeezed her thighs shut.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look now, they like each other.


End file.
